


Sherlollipops - Misdial of Fate

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [221]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform, sort of soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8754652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: MorbidbyDefault: Could I put an AU in the queue? Or consideration ballot box? Lol. I love your writing so much. Anyway, um...AU where Molly and Sherlock meet for the first time, but only several months after a drunken Molly sends him a drunken sexy pic of herself instead of her ex, and Sherlock has it saved in his phone. :) teeheehee...I hope that made sense. Basically soul mates because of drunken mistakes. ;) I LOVE YOU!





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has turned into an AU first meeting between Sherlock & Molly cause I don’t feel like dealing with canon right now. Also very slightly tweaked, especially concerning timelines. Enjoy!

It was mortifying. It was beyond mortifying, when Molly woke up and discovered that she’d not sent that nude selfie to her ex, Tom - which would have been bad enough! -- but to some random stranger. Who had responded to her lewd proposal with a rather prim, _Yes your breasts are ‘luvely’, but having never seen them in person I can’t say whether I ‘missssss’ them or not._ That first text had been followed by a second, reading, _Also you should know that I consider myself married to my work. -SH_

Molly groaned and plopped back on her bed, pillow squished over her face. How could she have made such a stupid, embarrassing mistake? Now her naked, less-than-perfect self was out there in cyberspace somewhere, unless Mr. (Ms.?) married-to-their-work was kind enough to have deleted the image immediately. God, what if it was a minister or nun or something?

“Well, ‘SH’, whoever you are, thanks for agreeing that my breasts are ‘luvely’,” she muttered to herself. She eyed her mobile, wondering if she she should follow up with an apology, then decided the whole thing was best just dropped. She supposed she ought to be grateful for her sloppy sexting skills; Sober Molly would happily have gone back in time to slap the mobile out of Drunken Molly’s hands but at least they’d both been spared the embarrassment of hearing from Tom.

They’d broken up a month ago, and she was honest enough to admit that she missed the sex more than she missed him. Not that the sex actually had been all that earth-shattering, but at least she’d been getting it on the regular. If only Tom had been more interesting - both in bed and out - they’d probably still be together. But no, Tom was just another nice guy in a series of nice guys who didn’t like her to talk about her work or her hobbies or even her cat. “Geez, Toby, why can’t I just meet a guy who doesn’t mind hearing about autopsies, or is interested in taxidermy--but isn’t, you know, a weirdo?”

Her beloved pet, who’d died eight years ago of natural causes, stared glassily at her from his perch on top of her bookshelf. Molly’s father had been a taxidermist, and Toby had been Molly’s first project under his supervision--at her own request. She grinned fondly at the stuffed tomcat, who looked as disgruntled and surly as he had while still alive. That supposed one-off had turned into a lifelong passion that dovetailed neatly with her career as a pathologist.

Unfortunately those twin passions only seemed to bring about two types of reactions in the people she dated: either they couldn’t stand to hear her talk about them, or else they thought she must be a kinky bird and were only interested in getting her into bed. “It’s not fair, Toby,” she groused as she began the arduous process of getting ready for the day while spectacularly hungover. “Why can’t I just meet someone who likes me for who I am, who doesn’t want to either change me completely or just get into my knickers and then swan off as soon as they do?”

Toby, of course, gave no answer, but Molly smiled at him anyway. He’d been the quiet sort of cat even when he was still alive, she thought fondly as she headed for the loo.

An hour later, washed and dressed and blessedly caffeinated, she made her way to work. She’d been at St. Bart’s for less than six months, otherwise she might have considered calling out after her ill-considered evening of pub-hopping. But Meena’s girlfriend had just proposed, and they’d asked Molly to stand up with them, so of course they had to celebrate, work night or not.

She was, however, fifteen minutes late, a fact that Dr. Sanderson was more than happy to point out to her when she rushed into the small lab where she had some slides to study. Damn that cheap watch Tom had bought her in Hong Kong last year; unlike him, she’d known it wasn’t a genuine Patek Phillipe but at least she’d thought it would keep decent time!

Promising that no, she wasn’t going to make a habit of being late (sod him, it was the first time she’d been late ever, and she hadn’t taken a single sick or personal day either), she smiled and bobbed her head as he lectured her. When he finally headed out, she couldn’t resist childishly sticking her tongue out at him as the door swung shut behind him. “Too bad it didn’t hit you on the arse on the way out,” she muttered, reaching for her to-go cup and a much-needed gulp of her second coffee.

“Shit!” she screeched as the lid somehow came loose, dousing her with the hot beverage. She did a little dance that was part pain, part attempt to avoid the coffee puddle on the floor, but managed to place the cup on the edge of the counter rather than dropping it and adding to the mess.

There was a small sink just behind her; after a quick glance at the doors - locked, you needed a key card to get in and right now there was no one on duty who would need to use the lab but herself - she dashed over to it and removed her lab coat. It was stained beyond her ability to tidy it up and would have to be traded out for another one, but her blouse she thought she might be able to salvage. After another quick glance at the door, she swiftly unbuttoned her top and sponged it off with some cold water, relieved to see that her emergency measures appeared to be working. She could always wear a scrubs top if it didn’t dry quickly enough, and change out later.

She glanced down and grimaced as she saw that her white bra was stained as well. With a mental shrug - in for a penny, in for a pound - she undid the front hook and slipped it off. Shivering a bit, she started scrubbing furiously at the coffee stains while her blouse lay drying on the counter.

Later she would berate herself for not at least throwing her stained lab coat over her shoulders while she did this. Later she would wish she’d not been muttering angrily to herself while the water was running, thus covering the sounds of the door being stealthily unlatched and opened. But that was later.

A man’s deep baritone was her first clue that she wasn’t alone. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said breezily as she whirled unthinkingly to face him. “And you must be the new pathologist, Doctor...Molly...Hooper.”

His voice trailed off as they traded stares. Molly was frozen in shock, unable to move even to cover herself and the stranger - Sherlock Holmes, what was it about that name that was sending of warning alarms in her mind? - seemed equally immobilized. After a second he gave a series of rapid blinks and cleared his throat as he glanced to one side. “Ah, well, direct visual evidence certainly corroborates the, um, that is…”

His odd words broke Molly out of her mortified spell; she quickly snatched up the stained lab coat and covered herself with it, her face burning with embarrassment. “Wh-what does that even mean?” she demanded, trying desperately not to show how panicky she was.

He nodded at her chest, his cheeks as pink as her own surely must be. “Your, um, breasts. They really are quite...luvely, in person as well as, uh, photogenically.” He held up his mobile and waggled it as if in explanation.

Mobile phone. Sherlock Holmes. SH. Oh, god, nononono…! “You’re not, I didn’t-- I dialed my ex, it was an accident, I’m so sorry, and then the coffee spilled!” She gestured wildly at the cup still perched on the counter next to her blouse. “I wasn’t...no one was supposed to be here! Why _are_ you here, anyway? Who are you?” Her panicked babbling was replaced by growing fear and she backed up against the counter. “You don’t work here!”

“I do too!” he rebutted, pulling an ID card from his pocket and flashing it at her. “See?”

“That says Dr. Sanderson, you nicked it from him,” Molly shot back. God, this guy must be some kind of sick stalker who’d somehow found out where she worked and followed her here, to do God knew what to her…

“Yes, I nicked it from him, but I do actually work here,” Sherlock protested again. “Sort of. I didn’t follow you, I’m not a stalker!”

“Then what are you?” she demanded while reaching back and groping for something to use to defend herself, should the need arise. While doing so she realized she’d left the water running the entire time, and that her bra was now thoroughly saturated - and aside from the sponge she’d been using to blot it, was the only thing in the sink. Well, if worst came to worst she could always slingshot it at the (really incredibly handsome) stranger, then bolt past him and scream for help.

“I,” he said, drawing himself up to his full, impressive height (6’1”? 6’2”?) and looking down his nose at her, “am the world’s only consulting detective.”

“Consulting at the hospital?” she asked doubtfully. Crazy stalker or not this was definitely the most baffling - and, she had to admit, interesting - conversation she’d ever had.

“Consulting with the Met,” he corrected her. “If you want corroboration, you can go ahead and call and ask for Gavin-- no, sorry, it’s Gary. Graham? Godric! It’s Godric Lestrade. I think.” He scrunched his nose, giving him an adorably confused look. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, anyway. He can vouch for me.”

When she hesitated, he nodded at her. “Your mobile’s in your lab coat pocket, I can see it from here. Don’t worry, I won’t come near you or touch you or your breasts until-- that is, you don’t have anything to worry about, just call him, send him my picture, whatever you need to do! And please for the love of all that’s holy,” he added with what sounded very much like an agonized groan, “will you put your lab coat back on?”

Some devil made her do it, she decided later. All she had to do was turn sideways, slip her arms one a time into the coat while still keeping an eye on him, button it up one-handed and call the Met as he’d requested. But no, instead, she just nodded-- and as casually as she could manage, removed the coat and shrugged into it properly with her breasts still facing him.

His eyes widened and he gave an audible gulp as he stumbled back a step. Smirking just the tiniest bit, Molly dialed the number for central dispatch and asked for DI Lestrade. “Hi, yes, I’m sorry to bother you, Detective Inspector, but there’s a man, says he knows you--Oh! Sorry again, my name’s Molly Hooper, Doctor Molly Hooper, I work at St. Bart’s…” Her voice trailed off and a narrow v appeared between her eyes as she listened to the voice on the other end of the call. “No, no, he’s not done anything -- well, he _did_ nick Dr. Sanderson’s ID, but....yes, I’ll make sure I confiscate it before he leaves...so I’m, erm, OK to be here with him? He’s not a suspect or anything-- no? OK, thanks, yeah, I appreciate it, sorry again to disrupt your...oh, sure any time, absolutely, I will absolutely call you at any time, Detective Inspect--oh, yes, Greg, of course. Thank you again!”

She looked up after finishing the call, to find Sherlock ‘not any danger to you unless you’re a criminal although that doesn’t mean you won’t want to punch him more than once’ Holmes glowering at her. “Well, isn’t that chummy,” he sneered, nodding at her phone. “Chatted you up, did he? Don’t be surprised if he shows up some day wanting to take you for a coffee.”

It was hard to tell, having just met him and all, but Molly could swear he seemed...jealous. “Well, I could certainly use one right now,” was all she said, biting back on another smirk. “Since my last one decided to commit suicide and take most of my wardrobe with it.” When he just stared blankly at her, she added, “Just to be clear, that was me asking you out for a coffee. Feel free to respond, either a yes or a no will do.”

Instead of answering Sherlock pulled his own mobile up near his face and rapidly began texting. Taking that as a no, Molly shrugged, trying to hide her disappointment as she turned to wring out her soaking wet brassiere. She wrapped it up in paper towels and checked her blouse to see how dry it was. As she was debating whether to put it on sans bra and just brazen out the rest of the day, her mobile rang. “Hello? Mike? You--what? But I just started my shift...oh, Sanjay needed the overtime? Well, if you’re sure, I actually would like to dash home, had a bit of a run in with my coffee...well, yes, thank you! I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”

She rang off, turning to face Sherlock again. “That was odd.”

He looked entirely too innocent as he replied, “Oh? What was odd?”

“That was my boss, Mike Stamford, ringing to let me know I could take the rest of the day off.”

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well, then I guess you’ll be free for more than one cup of coffee. There’s a cafe down the road that’s not too bad. They serve a nice croissant as well and their chocolate biscuits are almost as good as the ones my landlady bakes.”

Molly narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but held back from accusing him of somehow influencing her boss into giving her the day off. Even if he worked with NSY, that sort of thing was too ridiculous to contemplate. Coincidence, surely? “I know the place you’re talking about,” she finally said, “but I’m not exactly dressed for that sort of an outing. Raincheck?”

She definitely wasn’t imagining the flash of disappointment in his (green? blue?) eyes. “Yes, raincheck,” he mumbled. “Of course.”

He started to turn towards the door and Molly couldn’t help it; she stepped forward and said, “Wait.” When he tilted his head toward her, she rushed on, “I could put on a scrubs top, that’s what I planned to do before.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I’m, erm, not exactly the type who needs to wear a bra all the time, so that should be OK. Oh, and I really am sorry about accidentally sexting you last night, I was a bit pissed and missing my...well, not him so much as the s...anyway, it was an idiotic thing to do and I just hope you know I won’t ever do it again.”

He turned fully to face her as she fumbled to a stop, a definite smirk on his lips. “Well, depending on how coffee goes-- and whether or not your run screaming from me in horror after you get to know me a bit better --let’s just say I wouldn’t say no to another....sext, did you call it? Just be sure you don’t mix up the numbers again.” He nodded at her mobile, and Molly, cheeks aflame (how did their roles keep getting so mixed up, _she_ was the one supposed to be keeping _him_ on the back foot!) brought up the message she’d sent.

She stared at it, the confused v once again denting itself between her eyebrows. “What is it?” Sherlock demanded, stepping forward and peering down at her mobile.

“That’s not...I didn’t dial wrong, that’s Tom’s number,” Molly said. “How on earth--?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it’s not his number it’s mine,” Sherlock scoffed, then narrowed his eyes as she showed him the number she’d sent the message to. “Huh,” he said, appearing just as baffled as she felt. “That’s not even close to my mobile number. Which, in case you’re about to blame me for nicking your ex’s phone or something equally ridiculous, should be on the replies I sent you, yes?” Without asking he plucked the phone from her fingers and quickly brought up the ‘messages received’ listing. “Nope, definitely my number,” he muttered, showing it to her.

They traded confused glances for a minute, then Sherlock shrugged and tossed her mobile back to her. “Crossed lines, these things still happen even in modern times. I’ll be in the main lobby, don’t take forever getting changed Molly,” he added without even taking a breath. “You can fill me in on the Thompson autopsy while we walk to the cafe, that’s the reason I stopped in today, Lestrade’s SOCO team is full of idiots and I just know they missed something important in the report.”

Then he was gone, out the door and whistling cheerfully while she gaped after him. After another confused stare at her phone, she decided his explanation made the most sense, and gathered up her clothing. Yes, he definitely fell into the ‘weirdo’ category, but not the kind she usually found herself saddled with.

Besides, who was she to argue if fate decided to step in and nudge the two of them together?

Humming the same snatch of tune she’d heard Sherlock whistling, she hurried to the locker room to change.

 


End file.
